


Sympathy for the Devil

by LilithEros



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: A little Tate x reader but not the main focus, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Confrontations, Death, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Feelings, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Reader-Insert, Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, emotional baggage and learning how to deal with it, friendship and more...?, past toxic relationship, slow burn for now, small amount of sexual content (past stuff not with Michael sadly. Not yet), soft michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-01 12:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithEros/pseuds/LilithEros
Summary: Everyone deserves a happy ending don't they?Unfortunately for you, your end had already come in the form of clumsy footing within the Murder House.You suppose it's penance for the things you've done, but with death, comes a new eternal life in the House.When a certain blond monster walks through those doors, you can't help but feel drawn to him. History is beginning to repeat itself, but you are determined to write a different ending to this story.





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, posting another fic. This time, I've been needing some relief while burning in Michael Langdon hell, so this is my remedy! 
> 
> I've been rewatching episodes and diving into the lore of Murder House and Michael Langdon for this story. Really, this is kind of an experiment where I know not what the actual outcome is. I have the basic idea, I'm just kinda letting the characters drive this one.
> 
> Fair warning here: SPOILERS ahead for Apocalypse and Murder House. I don't know why you'd be reading this if you haven't seen them, but you have been warned.

He is beautiful.

Of that, you have no doubt.

You long to reach out…

To stroke his crown of soft golden waves in a gesture of comfort. To be lost in the frigid Arctic blue waters of his eyes and press kisses against the sensual curve of his lips and hard line of his jaw…

 _All in good time_ , you think, taking the tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You hum to yourself while your mind is abuzz with thoughts.

His tears broke your heart.

His desperation, tearing at the frayed ends of your restless soul, made you ache from the inside out.

You can't understand it. What was it about the broken boys that sent your heart a pitter-patter?

Unfortunately, you still couldn't find the answer even when you were plating the cookies, cooled but still warm and gooey, and carrying them to Ben Harmon's office as an offering to the sad, gorgeous boy who claimed to be a 'monster'. 

The chunky heels of your leather boots clunk against the worn wood floors. Some days, you preferred moving about in silence. But today, with the house in chaos over the new arrival, you want to be heard. To be seen.

You catch a flash of blue pass by the foyer ahead, a ghostly trail of smoke disappearing into the living room. 

A chuckle rattles in the back of your throat. You expect to encounter _her_ in the near future. Already you can feel her disapproval poisoning the air around you.

Ah, just like old times.

Except now, you are stuck with her bitter ass permanently.

You stop before the stained glass doors, slowly drawing in a breath and exhaling. Trembling digits smooth at the skirts of your dress, the printed faces of celestial bodies--suns, moons and stars-- encouraging you to relax with their tranquil expressions. Balancing the cookies in one hand, you open one half of the double doors without knocking.

Your unannounced visit startles the two males within. A hush falls over them, their attention zeroing in on you. Ben takes one look at your cookies and raises an eyebrow, setting his clipboard down on his lap.

In his experience, you had never shown yourself unless you wanted something. Whether it was just something simple as a talk… or a fuck, there was always some kind of 'catch' with you. He had never given in, though the temptation has been there just as it had always been for him in his days of living.

But there was something off about you. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Like whatever it was… it was beyond the human mind. Ben never wanted to investigate further. Now he was afraid of what kind of influence you would have over his young 'son'. 

"I made these for you," you coo to the boy, walking to the side of the leather couch where he's seated and holding out the plate to him, "I know it's… not much when your grandma just--uh… you know. But, I just wanted to do something nice for you."

You smile, a sheepish lift of your glossed lips.

"Oh! Um… thanks. I guess," he replies, gingerly plucking a cookie from the top, "...Who are you again?" The way he cocks his head to the side in bewilderment makes you want to squeeze his cute little cheeks together. 

You let out a nervous giggle.

"Sorry!" you apologize and introduce yourself, setting the plate on the coffee table, "I didn't mean to interrupt. I… saw what happened earlier. Just know that if you need to talk, I'm here too. Just say my name and I'll--"

"So you're a ghost too," he says. A statement. He assesses you with his eyes and for some reason, you feel that he knows, has known since you waltzed right in. Any normal person would have turn tail, but he seems pretty comfortable considering the circumstances. You like him already. You were always one for the 'abnormal'.

"Well… yeah. No getting around that, I'm afraid. I took a spill down the stairs in '96…" you sigh. You're still pretty damn mad about that. Go figure, you die in a house full of murdering ghosts and ill-intent, but not by the hand of anything evil. Your demise came from your own two clumsy feet. 

At least you have less to worry about as a ghost. "Broke my neck and everything. Good news is I'll never have to worry about wrinkles." Forever nineteen… with this body, you weren't exactly complaining much.

To prove your point, you step back and produce a cigarette from the pocket of your denim jacket, lighting it with the flame of a scuffed zippo. "Or lung cancer." 

"I see," The boy stops to take a bite of cookie, still unsure of your presence until the flavor of his treat truly sinks in, "These are really good, how did you even make them?" His mouth is full, but it's endearing. You see the warmth beginning to flow into the icy pools of his optics. 

Oh, there you are, beautiful creature.

A bit of chocolate is smeared at the edge of his mouth and you fight the impulse to jump on him and lick it off.

 _He's like a puppy,_ you can't help but think, _He'd be real fucking adorable on a leash…_

"All the ingredients are fresh, don't you worry about that, sweetheart," you assure, "We have a friend who comes over often. She's a medium. And in exchange for the company, I make her some killer desserts with the stuff she brings in. I can cook other things too. If you're hungry for lunch I could--"

"I think cookies are enough for now, thanks," Ben clips and you shoot him a brief look of disdain. You exhale a plume of smoke in his direction and he waves it away with a huff.

"Now remember, Ben, he's _human_. And a growing boy's got to eat, doesn't he? He can't live on sweets alone. He's gotta have his flesh, right?" Your words are pure, saccharine honey dripping from your sinful tongue.

At the word 'flesh', Dr. Harmon's eyes grow colder. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. The young man opposite him catches your eye again, interest piqued. There's a certain… glint in his stare. 

_Got 'im._

"Y'know, lunch sounds pretty good right now. If I bring some stuff over from-" he pauses, his breath hitching in his throat before he recovers, "-my h-house… do you think you can make something for me?" 

He's all puppy eyes now. 

You were willing to make him lunch and kill for him all in the same hour if he kept that up. 

It's confusing. 

Your face lights up. 

"Of course, honey, I'll make you anything your little heart desires! Oh, before I forget, what's your name again? I can't believe how rude I've been prattling on without even asking!" 

His lips quirk into a smile and you could swear his boyishness gave way to something much older and knowing. 

"Michael. Michael Langdon." 

Oh those Langdons… you could tell this one would spell trouble for you too. 

You knew his name. Had witnessed his birth. 

And now, you would welcome him home with open arms. 


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't help but fan the flames of her anger, even when you're burning too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm amazed at the amount of love this is getting after only a day of this being posted. Thank you for your support! :)
> 
> This chapter was incredibly fun to write. It's heavy with dialogue, sorry, but it just spilled out. I couldn't help it lol.
> 
> Warnings: language, a small bit of violence, and oh the drama... 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"Still as conniving as ever, aren't you?" That familiar drawl had your lips curling into a smirk. You didn't have to turn around to know who had finally shown herself. "I expect you'll be sinking your claws into my grandson now, you little--"

"Nice to see you too, Constance. Would you like to join us for lunch? I could set another place," you quip, tone pleasant as you turn the steaks in the pan to sear on the other side. Michael had certainly brought over a bounty. You could have chosen the chicken breasts to throw on the skillet, but you figure the filet mignon would piss off Constance even more.

"Those," she points at the meat, the ash on the Virginia Slim between her fingers hanging precariously onto the end, "are not yours. I paid good money for them and you have no goddamn right to touch 'em, much less worm your way into that boy's pants!"

You cluck your tongue. How many times have you played this game with her? Too many times it seems, and yet neither of you got bored of it. You loved to poke the bear and the bear was always hungry for your throat.

"Oh my dear, granny, you have no 'goddamn right' sticking your nose in my business. You still haven't learned your lesson, have you? Even in death, you can't stop playing Mama Bear. Just let it go. You gave up on Michael. None of this should be your problem anymore." You're cool as a cucumber while she's beginning to boil over with rage.

You turn around, resting the hand gripping the tongs on your hip. When you finally meet the blonde's glare, you give her a shit-eating grin.

Constance's face twists in disgust.

She's the same as you remember her. All dressed up with nowhere to go, her hair in that perfect coif, the smell of flowery powder, tobacco and Crown Royal hanging around her like a noxious cloud. 

It's good to see she hasn't changed a bit.

"You're right," Constance begins and you can hear her anger coiling up like a snake ready to strike, "Michael is not my problem anymore. However, you, _little missy_ , have been a venomous thorn in my side for many a year. I hated you when we were alive and I hate you still even in death! I knew I shoulda got rid of you before you seduced my Tate into committing those vile acts!"

"Me?" You pretend to gasp, batting your eyes and clutching at your throat like she actually struck a chord. You stumble back against the counter and let out a hearty guffaw. "Hah! I did nothing but love him when no one else did. I didn't 'seduce' him into setting your boy toy on fire or give him the idea of shooting all those kids. He did all those things of his own volition and I was just his girlfriend showing her love and support for him. I simply told him to take matters into his own hands. I didn't know he'd take that and run wild with it." You shrug and roll your eyes. 

Words have power. 

Yours really did at one point in your life.

It's a lesson you had learned to live with for a while until your death.

Strange how easy it was to weave your words like a spell and net you whatever your heart wanted. But you couldn't control how people chose to interpret them. Could only watch helplessly as the world around you burned and turned to dust. No matter where you went, misfortune followed. Your hands would appear clean to others, but only you could see the blood that stained them…

Those middle school girls.

Men whose eyes were bigger than their dicks and whose hands were too grabby for your liking.

Your ex-boyfriend gone in a hail of bullets and still out of reach as he runs further away from you chasing that other girl.

And God only knows how many more people you have ruined just for existing… 

But all of that was in the past. And now, there was no need to dwell on it anymore.

Though, the guilt liked to sneak up on you from time to time.

"See, that's the thing with you. You never take responsibility for the consequences of your actions, indirect or not," Constance stabs that cig at you like a dagger and you laugh. How little she knew! "Never have! What of your 'love' for Tate now? I would have thought you'd still be hanging off his back like some kind of tumor. Look at you and your desperation… baking cookies and fixing that boy lunch... It makes me sick watching you play Suzy Homemaker all over again in my fucking house!"

She took to pacing the floor like a tiger stuck in a cage, staring you down as if planning to make you her next kill. 

You feel no fear.

Only the sinister urge to keep stoking the flames.

Maybe it's the house.

Maybe it's you.

You can't tell which. You've been here for so long, it's getting harder and harder to tell the difference.

"Then don't watch," you hold out your arms, welcoming the challenge in her eyes. "FYI, this house was mine after you left. But now, this place doesn't just belong to me or you.. it belongs to all of us here. And in case you haven't noticed, mommy dearest, Tate's the one who dropped me like yesterday's newspaper. He's been chasing around that downer Harmon girl for like ever now. 

Contrary to your beliefs, I know when to respect my boundaries as far as love goes. I'm giving him the space he needs to do his thing and I move on with my thing. End of that story and right into the next installment, chickadee." 

You turn back to the stove, bearing your teeth in something between a grimace and a crazy smile.

"By the way, I wouldn't shout so much. You might attract the attention of a certain someone you're hiding from," you add, poking the steaks to check their doneness. 

That's when the angry viper decides to strike.

"You get the _hell_ outta my afterlife!"

You don't foresee her taking that hot skillet and whacking you upside the head with it. You hit the floor hard and hear the pan follow suit with a metallic clang, steaks rolling to a stop a few feet away.

You might've been dead, but that still FUCKING HURT in your physical form.

Your flesh sizzled and smoldered, the site of the impact leaking blood through the fractured bone that had pierced through. Your vision swam with stars until you shook it all off, righting your appearance again as if it had never happened.

Bitch.

But dammit, you still love her southern fire.

She was gone soon after, disappearing in a whisper of floral fabric.

"You're digging your own grave, slut," her words echo through the kitchen.

"Well, good thing I'm already fucking dead ya crazy old bat!" You call and pick yourself up from the floor. "But I still love you!" Just an afterthought, a little hook to dig into her skin.

A bout of laughter seizes you just then. The counter keeps you from falling again as you double over and allow the mirth flow and flow until eventually nothing is left but tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Constance. It was so great to see her in Apocalypse. I just hope I haven't butchered her character lol. 
> 
> At first I wanted the two to be friends, but then I started thinking about their history and this happened. Sorry if you wanted otherwise. Maybe one day, you can be civil to each other. XD


	3. Budding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He seeks and you provide. Something promising begins to bud between you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot longer than I had thought it would be. 😨 
> 
> Again, lots of dialogue. I hope it's not too much?
> 
> But dammit, I'm such a sucker for soft boi Michael. And food. If you can't tell, I'm definitely a foodie and I'm sorry if I make you hungry after this chapter.
> 
> Warnings: mentions/references of self harm (but nothing super in depth or detailed) and lots of feels including a bit of angst with some fluff to help soften it all.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this!

"Oh dear, are you all right?" Moira asks softly, already wiping the splatter of drippings all over the kitchen. 

As you blink, her form shifts back and forth. Young, old, beautiful either way. 

"Yeah. I'm great, Miss Moira," you sniff and scrub the remaining tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. "Call me crazy, but I missed her. It's so hard to feel anything but emptiness and guilt nowadays. I'm tired of being so miserable. She's always been fun to torment."

"We're all mad here, darling, so I understand. That nasty woman… what a waste of perfectly good filet mignon." The old maid purses her lips as she dumps the ruined meat in the garbage.

"Heh, truly it was her loss. She's the one who bought them!" You crow with delight.

The two of you share a look and burst into laughter, hers more reserved while you yuck it up like a deranged hyena.

You wash your hands and take the last two steaks out of the fridge. Moira places the pan and tongs, freshly washed, back on the stove. She squeezes your shoulder and you reach up to put your hand over hers.

While you certainly felt for the poor woman, you were glad to have her here. Over the years, she had become a close friend. Like Tate, you were drawn to her loneliness and sorrow. You talked most days, getting lost in deep, meaningful conversations as you helped her with housework. On days of darkness, when emotions ran high and it all began to overflow, you would go to her, seeking comfort. You'd lay your head on her lap and she'd stroke your hair like your mother used to do when you were young and innocent, basking in the silence of each other's company. You would be the daughter she never had and she would be the mother you missed.

Your relationships with some of the other residents were also about indulging in each other's needs. You gave and took in an endless cycle just to feel a little fluttering in your chest. Talk, sex, murder (no one living of course), play… and then solitude for years on end it would go.

You are tired of it.

Halloween adventures were the only thing you looked forward to but even those were feeling a little lackluster lately. 

"Is.. everything okay in here? I heard a lot of weird noises earlier." 

Moira's presence is gone without a single word and you are left holding your own shoulder.

Michael stands at the entryway and you wonder if him being there had shooed her away. Everyone is acting strange around him.

Even you.

"Well, hi there! Everything's fine, I just had a little problem with the stove," you fib and make yourself busy by pouring a bit of olive oil into the heated skillet.

His dark brows scrunch together. He can smell the lie and you know it.

"Are you sure? I thought I heard yelling…"

"It's a haunted house, hon. Of course you're gonna hear a scream here and there. Not everyone is happy in this house." You season one side of the steaks with salt and pepper and start searing them all over again.

"Are… are _you_ happy in this house?" 

The question catches you off guard.

Startled, you whip around and see him seated at the island, watching you intensely.

"Me? Oh honey…," you sigh, "Good question."

"So, are you or aren't you?" He prods, his hands folded on the counter. You feel like you're in a doctor's office being examined. The vibe in the room suddenly feels strange even for the 'Murder House'.

You gulp.

"Honest answer, no. I don't know how anyone can be happy here. It's a house full of ghosts and I'm not just talking dead people. We all have something we're haunted by. Whether alive or dead, everybody's got skeletons in their closet. Especially in this house. Now, how would you like your steak to be cooked?" 

You hope to steer the conversation in another direction. Your sorry past wasn't exactly the ice breaker you were planning to use.

"Rare please. Keep it mooing."

He smiles showing straight white teeth and you snicker, a light blush dusting your cheeks.

"Sure thing, handsome," you say with a wink.

You can't tell if your flirting is having an effect on him, but it's hard not to notice his lingering gaze.

The timer on the oven buzzes just as you season and flip the meat again. You shut it off and remove the baking sheet full of French fries without bothering to put on an oven mitt. A small hiss passes between your teeth and you blow on your fingers after dropping the tray on a pot holder to cool. The skin blisters, but the injury fades as quickly as it had come.

"It must be nice being able to do that," Michael points out, "Does it hurt much?" 

So full of questions this one…

You shrug. 

"It only hurts when I want to feel." You reply weakly and swivel back to check the filets-- only to freeze as your hand is snatched by another.

You inhale sharply as you feel the silky pads of Michael's fingertips trace where you had been burned. His hands are warm-- so very warm-- and you can feel your nerves tingle deliciously at his touch. You can feel every ridge of his finger prints, the pulse in his veins coursing steadily against your skin. He feels real and for a minute, you do too.

You forget to breathe.

But how could he have closed the distance between you so fast? 

When you turn all the way to meet him, you realize just how close he had gotten. Half a step more and your face would be against his chest.

"I don't understand.. Why would you _want_ to feel pain?" Michael whispers, lost in his exploration of you, his voice low and intimate. Goosebumps skitter up your arms. "You're so cold…" 

He's taller than you.

And that's when it hits you like another skillet to the head-

-he's as tall as Tate. He looks so much like him and yet...

...so different.

You can't speak. Your mouth feels like a desert as he continues ghosting his digits over your palm and ventures toward your wrist, slipping underneath the sturdy cuff of your jacket.

When he brushes over the first raised scar, you rip your hand from his grasp and hold it against your chest as if you had been burned again.

A lone tear streaks down your cheek.

Michael draws back from you, confused and hurt. 

"I-I'm sorry!" He blurts, his hands flying up to grip his hair, "I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't mean to--"

"Michael, it's okay!" You interject, palms out as if calming a spooked horse, "I'm alright. It.. it wasn't you, I swear! I… I just…," you bite your lip, struggling to form a coherent sentence.

Emotion makes your throat feel raw and you hold back the tears gathering in your eyes. 

You're feeling _too much_ now. 

His warmth slowly ebbs away until your skin is freezing once more. Why is he different? On Halloween when you were free to play, the heat from other living beings and of home furnaces and hot coffees never permeated the first layer of your dead flesh. Only the cold of your hometown and its chilly saltwater waves sunk into your body. Nothing else.

It's overwhelming. 

His touch, looking like your ex, the remorse he seemed to feel thinking he hurt you, and the inexplicable pull he has on you...

You want to scream and cry and smother him in your arms, begging him to make you feel more.

The boy calms in the quiet that follows and in time you do too. He resumes watching you, unsure of what to do until he says,

"Um, I think the steaks are burning!"

Shit!

You turn the steaks and a wisp of smoke floats up toward the exhaust fan. One side is definitely charred more than the other. Cursing under your breath, you pop the skillet in the oven to cook for a few minutes.

"Sorry. Usually, I'm more attentive to my cooking," you laugh nervously, seasoning the fries and serving a handful onto a plate. He says nothing, continuing to watch you as if he's absorbing everything about you on the surface.

Michael sits at the island again, waiting patiently. 

Once the filets are finished, you add them to his dish and top them with a pat of garlic herb butter you had prepared previously.

"You're not eating?" He asks, as you set his plate in front of him.

You grab ketchup from the fridge and set them down within his reach.

"I don't need much nourishment being dead and all. Did you… want me to eat with you?" You wring your hands together, infernal butterflies burning in your stomach. 

"It's kind of weird eating two steaks while you're just standing there. Do _you_ want to eat with me?" He flashes you that charming smile of his and you don't have the heart to refuse.

You settle with standing across from him with your own plate on the counter, unable to sit next to him with the awkwardness of your earlier exchange still fresh in your mind. 

The sharp scraping of forks and knives and the noise of chewing fills the heavy silence of the kitchen. Occasionally, you hear the groan of floorboards and a whisper or two, but no one comes to interrupt your lunch with Michael.

You can feel them watching, however.

"Where did you learn how to cook like this?"

You snap out of a daze.

His cheeks are pink and there's a twinkle dancing in his eyes. He hasn't complained once about the accidental char. Good food always did that to people no matter how tainted they claimed to be.

"Hm? Oh, I… I learned from my grandpa. When I was younger, my mom and dad both worked late into the night. They would drop me off at my grandparents and my grandpa would make me the most amazing meals. He was a cook in the Coast Guard, y'see, so I always ate good. Sometimes too good, heh. I loved watching him in the kitchen and eventually he just showed me how to cook and let me help out. When I was old enough to stay at home, I just kept learning new recipes by myself. The other kids would always be jealous of my lunch because I cooked better than their moms!"

Your laughter dies down at the sound of his.

There's a genuine curve to his mouth and the sight just sucks you in again. Michael looks so soft in the natural light filtering through the dusty windows. You drink in the perfect symmetry of his face and the steely blue of his eyes and wonder why Constance left him. How could she abandon such a precious angel?

"So gorgeous," you breathe.

"What?"

You clap a hand over your traitorous pie hole. Damn, you hadn't meant to let that slip!

"I-um-you--! You have something right there!"

Before you realise what you're doing, you lick your thumb and gently wipe away a stray drop of buttery steak juice at the edge of his mouth.

Michael chuckles.

"Did you just…?"

"Fuck, I did _not_ mean to do that." You back away, embarrassment setting your face on fire. Smooth, real smooth, girlie. You were so used to doing that to Tate…

But you remember that he isn't your ex. He is an entirely different person who you haven't built a relationship with that warrants that kind of behavior.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go curl up and die in a corner now," you whimper. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to play the coy seductress, not this blushing virgin shit!

"Please don't go!" Michael leaps up from his stool and the two of you wince when it collides with the floor. He rushes around the counter, grabbing your sleeve like a desperate child.

"Please, don't leave me… I'm sorry about scaring you earlier! You're really, really nice. I don't think I've ever met someone as nice as you besides Dr. Harmon!" He sniffles, on the verge of tears. You swear your heart has stopped. Your face softens and your arm grows limp in his hold.

"You.. you really think so, Michael?" Your voice cracks and he nods furiously at you.

"Y-yeah! I like you a lot even though we just met. Do you.. wanna be friends? I've never had any so I don't really know what to do. But I wanna try. I want to be _normal_! I need friends… and you're the only person my age who was willing to show yourself to me so far. So please..."

He whispers your name, soft and sweet, like he's making a plea to a parent. 

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. 

He seems quite juvenile… contrary to this majestic image of him you have painted in your head. 

And then you think, seriously, how old is he really? 

The numbers suddenly don't add up. 

He shouldn't be this strapping teenage dream boat. He should be in school learning his ABCs and 123s. Somehow, he has aged a decade in such a short time. This is way beyond the norm for someone human! 

Your lack of an answer has him already feeling rejected. He lets go, his lip quivering. 

"I'm sorry. I know it's pretty stupid of me to tell you all this… I--" 

"Now, hold on a minute, sweetheart. I didn't say 'no'." You rest a hand on his shoulder, turning him to face you again. You reach up and thumb away his tears. Michael blinks, his shapely lips parting in surprise. "You didn't scare me, I promise. And there's no way you can possibly hurt me when I'm dead. Trust me, I've had worse done to me in the past and still I remain in one piece when all is said and done. When you touched my hand… it was like I was drowning in feelings; I was shocked. Usually, I'm numb to the heat of the living and my sense of touch isn't as sharp after death, but you broke through that numbness and made me _feel_ , Michael. I can't say that about anyone else and I don't know how to explain it any other way. There's something special about you, I just know it." 

You cup his cheek affectionately, gazing into the dazzling frosted halos of his eyes. In turn, he revels in your touch, his eyelids fluttering closed for but a second before focusing back on you. There's a tender lift to his lips and a rosy hue decorating his face. 

"So.. does that mean you'll be my friend?" he questions again and you nod, beaming fondly. 

"Of course I will! Now, I may look your age but I'm a lot older than you think. I was born in '77, you do the math. It's… kind of not normal to make friends with the dead, especially here, but you know what? I was human once too. I remember what it was like being your age. I've never been completely normal, but if you're willing to look past that, I can be your friend if you like. I don't have many friends. All I have are the ghosts in this house and even when I was alive, I wasn't close to a lot of people. I'd really like to get to know you, Michael. I would love nothing more than to help you." 

You aren't prepared for him throwing his arms around you. You choke as he squeezes your form in the strongest hug you've ever experienced. Eventually, you melt against him, his body heat and scent spiriting away your senses. Your arms fold up to awkwardly cling to his sides, gently patting his shoulder blade with one hand. 

"Thank you," he murmurs into your hair, his breath tickling your scalp. 

"I'll take care of you, Michael. I promise," you pledge and enjoy the sensation of his lips forming a smile against the top of your head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: reader character's backstory for cooking stems from some truth drawn from my own life ;) though truthfully, I really got into making full blown meals when I became a mom. Before that, I only baked and made breakfast as a teenager. Now I can do it all lol.
> 
> ANYWAY, I would like to know what you feel about this chapter. Do you prefer reading this length, longer or shorter? Was there too much dialogue, or was I able to balance it with action? Please let me know what you think, even if it's not related to my questions. Sometimes I feel like I'm floundering around without a clue of what I'm doing. And as always,
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, sending kudos and subscribing! I really, really appreciate it!


	4. Salt and Vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old regret comes back to haunt you one last time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... A little intense and kind of unexpected. But I think it's necessary. The ideas just kept flowing I couldn't stop; the only thing I could do was polish it.
> 
> Warnings: explicit language, sexual references, drama, verbal cat fight (sort of), dealings with a toxic relationship, negativity, oh and surprise, some bisexuality thrown in there. (If you aren't comfortable with that, either skip this or imagine the relationship as a friendship gone wrong, it's up to you)

* * *

"It's a pipe dream, you know."

"What is?" You drawl, letting the cigarette smoke pour lazily from your mouth and burn through your nostrils as if you're a lethargic dragon, rocking back and forth in the rickety white rocking chair. 

_Creeak. Creeak. Creeak._

The sound of its old wooden bones fill the emptiness of the dusty basement.

Hayden, relaxing on an ancient loveseat pushed up against the wall, swirls the remaining contents of her wine glass and watches the drip line ooze back down into the dark red pool at the bottom.

"You and him, that's what" she answers, flicking her gaze up to meet yours, "Why are you doing this to yourself when you know eventually he's going to leave your dead ass for greener pastures? He's not chained to this house like you are." The dim lightbulb illuminating the room makes her amber eyes appear an inky black. The eyes of a demoness in disguise.

Your lips press into a moue of distaste before you take a sip from the glass in your hand. The brash tang of aged Cabernet Sauvignon rolls around your tongue before dissolving into ash on your deceased taste buds.

Just when you think you've discovered all the little treasures left behind in this house, it decides to surprise you with more gems to keep your weary soul occupied within its belly. 

Like the collection of crates full of vintage wine bottles hidden beneath piles of rusted junk and moth-eaten linen.

It had been a secret between you and Hayden in a place where everyone knew everyone else's business. The two of you kept the crates underneath the shit, rationing out each bottle like precious crumbs during an endless era of Depression. Anything to find a little fun in this graveyard of a home.

While neither of you were sure if it was actually palatable to a living human's tongue, there was enough flavor and glamour to drinking 93 year old wine that made the two of you feel like queens among peasants. You'd make yourselves drunk on the atmosphere and laze about, shooting the shit, messing around for a time or two to prolong that screaming void of love lost, and just enjoyed using each other to the fullest.

Your relationship had started as a tentative sisterhood when Hayden had awoken to the fact she was dead. The two of you would unload your troubles unto one another. You loved her blunt honesty and shared the pain of watching the one you loved most pursue other women.

Gradually, The House would prey upon your weaknesses and brought out the darkness within the both of you, twisting your camaraderie into something stemming from your most primal needs. Your chaotic tryst began after finding the wine.

And then, shit hit the fan with the Harmons and their babies, snapping you out of evil's grasp. Hayden then became something to truly despise, dangling your dream baby in front of you to get you to fall into that pitfall of madness the house had set up for the most vulnerable of souls which you had managed to avoid dropping into until this moment. But you weren't a baby snatcher, even when your ex's child was up for grabs.

You had banished her from your personal bubble until now. 

This evening had been quiet for you since Michael retired to bed, his stomach and heart full from sharing dinner (of which you had cooked, of course) with you and Ben. Dr. Harmon was forced to play nice with you, but you could tell he was suspicious of your motives and protective of his precious golden boy.

You had been relaxing with a good book in the neglected gazebo after dinner, a blanket around your shoulders as you lounged in a deep wicker arm chair even when the night air had no effect on you. Hayden had taken the opportunity to appear while your guard was down. She had tempted you into indulging in her company one last time over the very last bottle of the stash. 

Presently, you are here to drink it and nothing more. A final farewell to the toxicity of her presence.

"What makes you think he's going to leave?" you question idly, simpering while anxiety gnawed at your insides. She's working toward something; you just know it. For now, you grin and bear it.

"C'mon! You can't honestly think he'll stay here forever? You of all people should know how fleeting the interests of men are. And I'm living--uh, no-- _concrete_ proof of that." Hayden gives you a look and you can't help but cover your mouth to stifle a giggle. "Oh, don't you dare bitch!" She warns, realizing her mistake, and that's the moment when the dam breaks. 

"HAH! 'Concrete'! Hahahaha! Ohmigod, I'm gonna fuckin' pee my pants!" You jeer, your entire body convulsing with humor. 

"Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus Christ, you are such a fucking cunt! At least I know where my body is!"

She throws her wine glass at you, only for it to crash against the empty chair, staining the weathered paint like high velocity blood spatter and littering the area with glittering shards.

You stand a foot away from her now, arms crossed. Your wine is safely away from danger but the cigarette remains in hand. You take a drag and shake your head with a sigh. Ah, the perks of being a ghost...

"You can take your anger out on me, but not the wine! Damn!" you exclaim. With her acting like this, you begin to doubt her truthfulness about the alcohol. "The hell is up with you all of a sudden? You invite me down here, promising wine and good times, but I see nothing has changed. You tell me what the purpose of all this is, Hayden McClaine, or I walk away now and leave you to fester with the rest of the pus-filled rats."

For a moment, the young woman looks like she's ready to hurl something else but then her shoulders sink with a tired exhale of air.

"I'm sorry. You're just being so fucking stupid right now, it's bugging the shit out of me. Stop running away from my questions."

She pulls you into a hug and you drop your smoke.

"I thought we weren't doing this anymore," you murmur, keeping your arms at your sides. It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to resist hugging her back. Being so close reminded you of those moments on the love seat with her. She knew all your likes and the correct buttons to press to send you careening off the edge and you knew hers.

She pulls apart from you a little, keeping her arms around your shoulders. Your eyes are drawn to the honey of her eyes before briefly darting to her lips. She had such a wicked mouth… 

But, you're smart enough to know the consequences of letting yourself get wrapped up in her and her games.

You frown at her.

"I'm not trying to get under your skirt, you idiot," she snaps, "I'm trying to save you from getting hurt again-- or worse! Don't you see that there's something wrong with him!? You know how old he's supposed to be. There's nothing normal about him! Haven't you noticed the darkness that hangs around him? It's like his soul just reeks of decay. That's why most of us are avoiding him. There's nothing good in trying to establish a relationship with that… thing!"

You push her off and narrow your eyes.

"He's not a thing! His name is Michael and he is the sweetest goddamn boy on the face of this planet! What the fuck is your problem? When he was a baby, you were all gung-ho about keeping him for yourself, seed of evil or not." 

Just thinking of that time made your blood boil.

_"But it's Tate's baby, don't you want it?"_

_She was the embodiment of temptation. You saw that now when it was too late in the game._

_The surviving baby was there in her arms, calling for you to hold his warm body and give him your love. In some fucked up alternate universe, you would have taken him with the hope that Tate would return, and the three of you would be a happy little family unit like you had often imagined together, rose-colored pillow talk come true._

_But you were not a part of that world and this baby was not yours to take._

_"Of course I do," you began, your heart gripped in a pain so excruciating, you felt like you were dying again. "When I was alive, I loved him so much that I wanted to have his children, and he wanted to have a normal, boring family filled only with love and no pain… But I'm dead now, Hayden. My dream of being a mom to his kids is dead too. If there's one thing I can do to take care of his baby, it's keeping him away from you! There's no future for that child here and I won't let you decide for him!"_

_That was the one time Constance ever approved of you._

_She had never said 'thank you' in the time you had known each other until you were taking that baby from Hayden with Travis' help and handing him over to the one person left alive able to raise him._

_You were not a 'good' person, but that was one thing you could do to add a point of positive karma in your moral bank._

In the present, you feel as if the situation is the same with different circumstances at stake.

"Yeah, that was before he drove his own grandmother to commit suicide just to get away from him," Hayden sneers, and you wonder why the hell you're still here when you could just tell her to fuck off. "She told me all the terrible things he's done. Murdering his nanny at the tender age of 3, mutilating the local wildlife and neighborhood cats… oh, and most recently, a priest. Can't forget that one!"

"Bullshit!" You begin to back away, putting distance between you and this this toxic waste dump of a woman. You regret ever having anything to do with her.

"I wish I was making it up, but I'm not. Do you think Constance would have taken her own life if he had been a normal kid? She bases her entire existence on being a mother despite her shitiness at being one. He broke her. Plain and simple. And if she's broken, I don't want to know what he'll do to you if you keep playing at this girl-next-door shit. You're just wasting your time on him and setting yourself up for heartbreak."

She lets her words hang in the air, staring you down with determination. Most of the things Hayden is spouting makes sense, but then again, she has a tendency to use the truth as leverage to bring her darkest desires to life.

You weren't about that shit at all. Not anymore.

"I don't know why I ever let you rope me into talking to you again. I should have left you panting and needy the day we met instead of letting you have your way. Fuck you, Hayden. I don't need you anymore and I never will again. You're a jealous little shrew, always have been and always will. I won't let you ruin the only good thing to happen to me in this house after dying. Go away," you snarl vehemently. 

"You're going to regret this, bitch. You know I'm always right," she warns, a sickening smile on her face. You want to vomit.

"Maybe so, but I'll take that chance if it means getting the fuck away from you and your radioactive personality. Go _away_!" 

Your shriek echoes throughout the room, passing through the hollow space where Hayden had been standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you still with me? Hopefully? Lol I think next chapter will be something to soothe the burn of this.
> 
> I don't really like Hayden, but her dual personality while in the house intrigued me. I imagined the reader and her bonding over their lost love and then some. 
> 
> Now, I'm a casual wino, so idk what super aged cab. Sauvignon tastes like. I just know it's got a bold flavor lol. I did a little research, but it's all I got.
> 
> Also, I've been drawing some heavy inspiration from The Haunting of Hill House, both show and the book by Shirley Jackson. I'm not done with the book yet (*gasp*) so if you've read it, please no spoilers haha. But I'd love to discuss this gem of entertainment. The concept of a place being bad and sentient is just the most interesting thing to me!
> 
> Anyway, thanks to those who have commented showing your support last chapter! I'm so happy y'all are loving this. You keep me going. Even to those who haven't left comments and are still following and reading this, I still appreciate you too! <3


	5. A Test of Patience and Prudence // Side A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to follow rules and play the good girl when Michael is the one breaking them and tempting you to follow suit. (Part 1 of 2?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai there :3 
> 
> This chapter was a frickin monster and it didn't help that AO3 kept adding unnecessary html tags and messing with my own html crap when I tried copying and pasting from Google Docs. Took a long time to clean up.
> 
> I split it into two parts. 2nd half will go live very soon. Could be tomorrow, a couple days from now... Or even today depending on how much I add to it lol. I've been busy trying to organize my daughter's room... And we just bought Super Smash Bros Ultimate and Pokemon Let's Go Pikachu soooo... Let's just say I've been distracted by more than Michael's fine ass in my thoughts lol. 
> 
> Warnings: FLUFF so much fluff. And a dash of nerdiness. Overall, this half of the chapter is just soft baby Michael and wholesome content save for your potty mouth lol.

* * *

Three weeks go by in the blink of an eye.

Already, Michael is learning everything there is to being a regular teenage boy under Ben's tutelage at a rapid pace. Watching him go through his lessons makes something within your chest bloom as he does. He seems to be doing well soaking up all the love he can like a little sponge. He's been so starved for affection, it hurts even you. However you're only allowed to watch and participate under Ben's hawk-like gaze.

Dr. Harmon had made sure to lay down some ground rules with you when Michael was out of sight and earshot. He allowed your friendship with Michael as he thought it would be healthy for the boy to have a peer similar in age, but he strictly forbade anything more than that. 

_"He's still vulnerable and is easily influenced. His sudden transformation from child to pubescent teen has caused a rift within him. His pattern of thinking is still that of a child, but it seems the teenager in him is fighting for control as well. It would be wise to tread carefully, as his emotions are quite unstable at this time._

_I do not want you fucking up all of_ **our** _," Ben puts emphasis on the word, intending to leave you out of the subject, "hard work so far. If you want to help him, the best thing you can do for him is to keep your hands to yourself. If you try to do anything to corrupt my son, you'll never see him again."_

With that threat in mind, you acquiesced to his demands.

Your time with Michael was supervised. Ben would linger in the shadows, making sure you were never alone with him. You engaged in friendly conversation, played board games, and broke bread together three times a day and then you would bid him goodnight.

In addition to building a platonic relationship, Ben let you tutor Michael in basic school subjects, catching him up to speed in education. You were a smart young woman and the fact did not go unseen in Dr. Harmon's eyes. Perhaps he was trying to bring you to the side of light as well. 

There were many textbooks and educational material left behind in the attic and you used those to homeschool him. Ben formed the curriculum and you became Michael's teacher. Math, science, literature, history, writing and art… you did it all with a smile, proving your worth and building a line of trust between you and Ben.

Michael flourished, and you were simultaneously glad and blown away by his intelligence and ease of picking up things. By the end of the third week, you were nearly done with high school level subjects and encroaching on college material. Soon, your pupil would be passed back to Ben. Your knowledge was reaching its limit.

* * *

"Why can't I be alone with her?"

Michael's voice stops you in your tracks.

You set down the serving tray holding a plate of freshly baked blueberry mini-muffins and glass of milk - Michael's mid-lesson snack- on a console table in the hallway outside Ben's office, and creep near the closed doorway. You press an ear against it, their voices muffled but still clear.

"I'm sorry, Michael… but that's out of the question," comes the psychiatrist's calm answer, "I… I can't trust her intentions for you."

"What do you mean?" There's a squeak of leather and you can imagine Michael jumping to his feet from the couch. He's upset and you're beginning to feel that way too.

_That bastard! 'Can't trust' me? Even after all of my help? What the actual fuck!?_

Your hands tighten into fists at your sides. 

"She's not a bad person! She would never do anything to hurt me; she's my friend!" 

Your heart jettisons into the stars at his words. He's defending you! 

_Go, sweet boy, go!_ you mentally cheer. 

"Well… she may appear that way to you, but there are still a lot of things you don't know about her." 

"And you do? It's not fair! I've done everything you asked me to do and all I want is a normal, relaxing day with my best friend-- _alone_!" 

"Michael, please--" 

"No! Leave me alone!" 

There's a loud crash and a strange tremor shakes the very walls of the house, the lights strobing maddeningly. 

_What the..?_

Angry footsteps approach the door. 

Panicked, you disappear from the hall and pop outside into the gazebo for fresh air, breathing hard. You rush to your favorite chair, throwing yourself into it and picking up a book from a picnic basket of beloved titles you had placed beside it. 

The afternoon sun warms the early autumn air, but it's hard to focus on the heat of the sunlight teasing your cheeks with your mind racing. 

And then you remember you left the tray on that table. 

"Damn it!" 

Air hisses through your nose, pushed up from the back of your throat, and your stomach drops into your feet. He would know you had been there. 

You light a cigarette and try to get into your book. 

"You were listening, weren't you?" 

The sound of Michael's voice makes you jump right out of your skin and you violently cough out gray clouds of smoke. You whip your head in his direction, wide-eyed like a deer facing oncoming traffic. You hadn't even heard the backyard door closing. 

"Holy shit, hon! You gotta stop doing that," you wheeze. Imagine, a living boy scaring an actual ghost by sneaking up on her… talk about irony. 

He's holding your snack tray, curiosity burning in his red-rimmed, watery eyes, compelling you to tell the truth. 

You chew on your lower lip and his eyes flicker between meeting your gaze and watching your mouth. 

Well, that's new… and quite welcome. 

"I.. might have heard a couple words," you admit, puffing on your cancer stick thoughtfully. Michael's lips press into a thin line before he sighs heavily in a dramatic teenage fashion. He's definitely adjusting well to his big boy body. "You want to talk about it, honey? I've got another chair here that's been crying for attention." You pat the seat next to you, the lonely twin to your own chair. 

"..Not really. But, I would like to share these delicious muffins with you, if that's okay," he offers instead, moving to sit with you and placing the tray on the grimy little glass top table between your seats. 

You give him a sympathetic smile, your inner self high on the sugar of his personality. 

"Yeah, ol' Ben Kenobi can be such a buzzkill. I wouldn't want to talk about him either. Though, I did make those for _you_ , y'know," you wink, laying your book face down on your knee to save your place while you helped yourself to a treat. 

"I know. But you always make so many, I can never eat all of them at once." Michael snickers, and you admire the way his skin and hair glow with an ethereal golden hue under the sun. You feel as if you're gazing upon the god Apollo himself. 

_Beauteous, heavenly deity.. how fortunate I am to be blessed by your radiant presence!_

For a moment, Michael pauses to look at you, tipping his head to the side as if he had heard what you were thinking. He contemplates your alarmed expression before asking, 

"Who's Ben Kenobi?" 

You nearly inhale your muffin as you gasp, completely appalled. 

"You're joking, right? Haven't you seen Star Wars?" you whisper in shock and his brow furrows. 

"No, what's that? A video game?" So innocent… so uneducated. 

You suck in another harsh breath, unable to close your gaping mouth. 

"You're fucking kidding me… I can't be that old, can I? Ugh, I _am_! Constance, how could you!?" you moan, raising your head to the sky. Your palms come up to dig into your temples. 

"Did I say something wrong? What does this have to do with my grandma? You're… kind of scaring me." He looks at you like you're a madwoman and then you think, 

_Oh yeah, I kind of am._

You put your book back with its companions and ground your cig into an ashtray on the table before standing. 

"It has everything to do with your granny's aversion to childhood joy. I can't believe she's never… actually--scratch that--I can. Anyway, grab that tray, angelface, I'm going to give you a remedial lesson today," you say firmly. 

Michael raises an eyebrow and reluctantly rises from his chair. 

"Now you're definitely scaring me. What are we going to do?" 

"Don't be afraid, sweetie! We're just gonna take a little journey into spiritual enlightenment. Right now." 

You take his hand in yours and he only has time to swipe the muffin plate up before you're dragging him back toward the house. 

* * *

"Why are we watching Episode IV? Shouldn't we be starting with the first one?" 

Michael stares at the faded cover of the Star Wars VHS box set in his hands, puzzled. The Prequel set rests next to him at the foot of his bed and he picks that one up to examine as well. 

You're sitting in front of a small TV with a built in VCR, feeding it the first tape. It had been deceptively heavy but with Michael's strength, the two of you were able to carry it into his bedroom from the little storage room you liked to hang out in adjacent from his claimed space. 

"That _is_ the first one, young Padawan! It's part of the original trilogy which came out way before the others. And honestly, the originals are a lot more enjoyable. I grew up with those after all." 

This is the first time you've been in here with Michael, and only the second time you've been alone with him during his stay. 

Ben's warning about banishment tugs at the back of your mind, but with Michael's sudden taste for rebellion, you decide to send the grumpy psychiatrist a mental 'fuck you' by bending the rules a little. 

Your teenage companion's room is quite spacious, but depressingly empty and dark. Dust motes dance and slowly descend like flecks of snow in the gray beams of light shining through the ebony wood slats of the shuttered windows. There's a bed with more than enough room to accommodate the two of you, a wooden chair in the corner and a long rectangular dresser that you had pushed closer to the bed to place the TV on. 

You press the fast forward button on the television, speeding through the previews. You wish someone could have invested in the DVD versions. While it had taken you a couple months to truly master the disk system, you appreciated the convenience of it. 

Many a night was spent taking advantage of the various movie collections and pieces of technology left by previous residents. Though, a few of your own videos had managed to stick around. One of your favorites being Star Wars. 

"What's a Padawan?" 

"Shhh, all in good time, honey, all in good time.. Ooh, it's starting!" You squeal and dive onto the bed just as the fanfare of brass blasts from the speakers. 

"Hey, watch it!" Michael saves a big bowl of popcorn from bouncing off the bed but a few rogue kernels spill onto the sheets and his lap. 

You awkwardly rotate and wiggle around until you're lying on your stomach and facing the TV before scooping up the popcorn around him and snatching one from between his legs with a cheeky grin. You toss that one into your mouth and it crunches between your teeth with a crisp pop. 

The blond's cheeks visibly color and you giggle as you turn your attention back to the screen, satisfied with his reaction. 

-*- 

Halfway through the movie, the two of you decide to move the TV to the side of the bed so you are able to relax against the headboard in a more comfortable position. The popcorn and mini-muffins have all been eaten and nothing but half-empty cans of soda remain standing on the chair you had used in place of a nightstand. 

You're conscious of the small gap between your bodies. Michael doesn't let you forget about it. 

He's 'accidentally' brushed his knuckles against the edge of your hand and bumped thighs with you more than a dozen times now over the course of the movie. Although he hasn't tried the Yawning Stretch quite yet, you feel like he's tempted to try something similar. 

You've played this game many times before and know what his sideway glances and flushed cheeks mean. 

"Aren't you warm in that jacket? I didn't think you'd be so comfortable in it," Michael blurts, scratching at the back of his neck. 

So subtle, this boy... 

"I don't think I even noticed! I mean, I'm a ghost so…," you smile sweetly and nonchalantly shrug off your denim anyway, flinging it toward the foot of the bed. 

"Oh, yeah huh…" you watch his Adam's apple bob as he eyes the low neckline of your black slip dress for a split second before focusing back on the movie. 

You know he's received The Talk recently. 

The subject of Sex Ed was unavoidable, especially when he had all those new hormones to deal with. That was the one day you weren't allowed in the room but you would catch snippets of hushed explanation before you came in with his snacks. 

Another spell of silence settles between you. You keep playing the ignorant card, but it gets harder and harder as your bare skin makes contact with his arm from time to time, torturing you with his lasting heat. How can you keep your hands to yourself when he's the one trying to initiate contact? 

When Michael's pinky grazes yours for the nth time, you decide to make the first move. You boldly slide your hand to rest on top of his and curl your fingers underneath his palm. 

His body stills and you hear his breath hitch. The corners of your mouth pull upwards into a coy smile as you meet his startled gaze. Michael's pupils have become two vast black holes swallowing the brisk sky of his irises. 

"You're going to drive me insane, darling boy. Be careful," you murmur, your voice gentle yet strained. 

Michael rolls his wrist and your palms finally meet. A flood of warmth rushes through your veins, heating you from the inside out. His fingers entwine with yours and fit together perfectly. 

_Like they're meant to be._

The arbitrary thought feels like its surfacing from the very depths of your soul. 

His hands are large, you realize now, he completely encompasses yours with dense muscle and long fingers. The hands of a man. He could probably tear you apart piece by piece, yet in this moment he is tender and careful. What would they feel like against the rest of your body? 

_A dangerous line of thinking, that is._

"What happens if I drive you to insanity?" he presses, the query a breathless sound, low in his throat yet piercing to your ears. Michael sounds like an entirely different entity, maturity and temptation wearing the cherubic face of a boy. 

Little shit! 

"Wouldn't you like to know?" you tease, poking out your tongue and reaching up to ruffle his hair with your free hand. The wild curls are surprisingly smooth and downy as if you're touching the mythical golden fleece of legend. 

_My hair could never be as luxurious…_

Your touch lingers longer than necessary before you stop and rest your head on his broad shoulder with a wistful sigh. How is he so perfect? 

"You're no fun. I would actually like to know," Michael pouts quietly, his thumb massaging the skin between your thumb and index finger. 

"Maybe when you're older, cutie. I… I promised Dr. Harmon I'd be good." 

_'It's a pipe dream, you know. You and him…'_

Hayden's words come back to bite you in the ass. Was it fair to Michael to pursue something more than a friendship? When he came in looking for Constance, you were immediately enamored with his appearance. You were assaulted by desire and an uncontrollable urge to fight your way into his presence without thinking about the finer details, including the why. 

Had it been you? The house? Him and his supposed 'decayed soul'? 

In any case, you are stuck in this house. You can't run away with him to start a new life. You can't go outside for dates, go apartment shopping with him or give him children and grow old with him… 

You had said it yourself the day you saved Michael from Hayden, 'There's no future for that child here and I won't let you decide for him!' 

You didn't want to influence him to stay forever. This house is an actual hellhole, and you'll _both_ drown in the darkness eventually. 

But as he moves to turn your chin up to him with his free fingers, still keeping a grasp on your hand and maintaining the connection between the two of you-- 

\--you find yourself at an impasse. 

Do you push him away to save him again, or do you pull him to you and burn together? 

Michael's words bring you back to him, capturing your gaze with his magnetic stare. 

He's too close. If you moved even half an inch, your lips would meet. 

"I promised I'd be good too… but when I'm around you, I want to do some not-so-good things," he confesses and your lungs and heart cease to function. 

"What do you mean, Michael?" you ask in a hushed tone, feeling like your toes are on the edge of a cliff overlooking a steep drop off with no end in sight. If you move even one iota, you will kiss him. His lips are right there, your breaths are already mingling… 

_I'm going to kiss him. I swear to God I'm going to do it!_

There's a pregnant pause. 

And then he answers, 

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Parroting your flirty remark. Something within you snaps. 

"Augh, you're _killin'_ me, Smalls!" you screech and let go of his hand to attack his sides with tickling fingers. 

Michael lets out an adorable yelp and flops back against the bed. A wrestling match then ensues. Your bodies roll around the mattress, fighting for dominance in the most intense tickle fight you've ever been a part of. Delighted screams and laughter fill the gloomy bedroom, bringing fun into a space where fun comes to die. 

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes as Michael fights back, poking and prodding at your most vulnerable spots as if he had always known where they were. The sheets and blankets wrinkle and snare at your limbs as you twist to avoid him in vain. 

"Do you give up yet?" he demands, grinning ear to ear as he exploits your weak spots. 

"Never!" you cry and try to throw your weight toward the foot of the bed. However, momentum carries you further than intended and you nearly roll off. Flustered, Michael lunges toward you in an attempt to save you, but effectively tackles you off the edge. You scream as you both fall to the floor, wrapped in each other's arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you squirming and squealing on the inside, or is it just me? 
> 
> I love this and the next part. I'm excited hehe. But there are definitely some feels next chapter. I totally cried writing it. Yeah. But more fluffy stuff ahead too.
> 
> Oh yeah, I finally finished The Haunting of Hill House book. It only took me like a few months for a 233 page book 😂 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this. Thanks so much for the love, you guys rock ❤️


	6. A Test of Patience and Prudence // Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings surface, old and new. (Part 2 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty thick too lol. And packed with feels. But, the promised part 2 is here!
> 
> I can't believe how fast I'm cranking these out... I can go months and years on end without posting when I'm at a loss.
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> Warnings: so many goddamn feels, fluff, ANGST, language, mentions of cutting and scars, and a short Tate x Reader flashback that has a little sexual content and more feelings (sorry, it's not Michael yet. I still have a small affinity for Tate)

* * *

"Oof!" You grunt as your back meets the hardwood, your skull singing with sharp pain for only a second before you will it away. You're unable to breathe with the incredible weight upon you, but you're lucky you don't actually need oxygen. "Holy shit," you swear softly and open your eyes to see nothing but bright blue and strands of gold. 

"Are you all right?" Michael rasps, his breath fanning across your face as he speaks. He's too close again… but this time, you really can't avoid it. He's lying on top of you, his long legs straddled over your lower half and arms trapping yours around his torso in an unintended hug. 

The hem of your dress has snuck up to your waist and you sober to the fact that your underwear is exposed.

_Don't look down_ , you silently pray. 

You give a wry chuckle at his question, wetting your lips. His eyes follow the movement of your tongue. 

"You're lucky I'm dead," you giggle, "I think this is supposed to be the other way around. You're a big boy." 

"I'm sorry..." 

You share a moment of awkward laughter before it dies down and you're left with the sound of breathing and the feeling of his crotch rubbing against that damnable soft spot between your legs. The stiff material of his jeans pokes against your folds as he shifts to support his own weight. He keeps you trapped beneath him but allows the freedom of your hands. Unsure of what to do with them, you lay them at your sides. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to hold in the moan fighting to surface. The only person to touch you recently was yourself, last week. It's hard to keep a handle on your ceaseless libido when the inspiration for your current fantasies is lying right on top of you with his clothes on. 

"You're beautiful," Michael suddenly states and you blink, your wicked thoughts blowing away as easy as chaff. 

"Wha..?" 

His fingertips brush away the stray hairs from your face, eyes drinking you in. 

"You heard me," he smiles. You feel his touch dancing atop your hand, tracing your fingers one by one, nail to knuckle and sweeping back up to the next digit while still looking in your eyes. He leaves a trail of fire on your frozen flesh and you shiver. 

"I.. I think we should get up. My back is starting to hurt," you say, the danger of the situation growing with each second. You can feel that dark need building behind your mental dam of self-control. He snickers. 

"You're afraid. Why? You're my dearest friend… you shouldn't be scared of me," he whispers to you. 

He's seeing into your soul, you're sure of it. There's no other explanation for it. 

"I don't want to ruin you," you admit, transfixed by the impossible color of his eyes. They remind you of home. Of crashing waves and the azure light of the heavens above shining through a veil of cold silver clouds.

"May I hold your hand?" Michael implores and you nod once, wordless. He claims your left hand, encasing it within his cozy paw.

_I will allow this and nothing more… hand holding is okay. We're friends after all.._

"Is that why you're afraid? How could you possibly ruin me? You're my best friend in the world, my one and only," he proclaims, shameless in his delivery. 

You don't realize you're crying until he's kissing away your tears.

You gasp softly, your heart racing at the feel of his silken lips on your cheeks. 

"That's only the tip of the iceberg, darling boy," you reply, heavy with sorrow. You allow his uninvited lips just this once. Michael's smile fades. 

"What's wrong? Tell me," your name rolls off his tongue, sweet music to your ears. He lifts your joined hands and lays a fleeting kiss on each of your knuckles, slowly, comfortingly, lovingly… 

"Michael, we-- you shouldn't…"

He stops for a moment but keeps your hand, mouth hovering near.

"But we're friends, aren't we? You're in pain. I can feel it… Grandma's kisses always took away my pain. And now, I'd like to help _you_ heal. But, you can stop me at anytime." 

You're paralyzed, afraid of denying Michael and fighting against the part of you enjoying his affections. You didn't want to be added to the list of people who have wronged him. He doesn't deserve more rejection...

"I'm dead. That's what's wrong," you finally respond, your resolve unraveling stitch by stitch. "What more can I do for you to make you happy here? No one is happy here. If you were to leave, I can't follow you. And if you stay, you risk falling prey to this place. It is an evil place, my dear. You were born here yes, but the truth is, I never wanted you to live here. 

I helped hand you over to Constance when you were a baby. You were taken by the vermin that still roam the halls who enjoy looking for someone of flesh and blood to corrupt. They killed Dr. Harmon and took you from him. But I saved you. And I still want to save you now that you've returned, and while I'm still sound of mind. The house has ways of bringing out everyone's evils. No one is safe. Not me and certainly not you. We can't be 'good' people in this house, we just can't. I'm not afraid of you, I'm afraid _for_ you, Michael." 

You're sobbing now, wracked with fear and aching from his affectionate kisses. His gentleness grips your heart, squeezing and squeezing until you are certain it will pop. You don't deserve this boy. This sweet, innocent boy afflicted by rejection and darkness. 

He's too pure. God, why is he so pure? It's not fair… it's not right! Why was he made from an unholy union, born from evil, rejected by his mother, grandmother and the other spirits? And why is he here, planting such soft kisses and desperately vying to be 'good'? To be _normal_? 

It hurts… _Fuck_ , it hurts! 

Drops of warm water fall from the sky and onto your face. 

"We can try," his voice breaks as fat tears form rivulets down his own cheeks, "together we can try. Where can I go? This place is the only home where I have a family. And you're my only friend in the world; I don't want to see you sad, scared or hurt!" He pulls away the wristband hiding the ugly scars on the inside of your wrist, while small in number, each one tells a story of pain between the neatly spaced lines more narrow than college ruled paper. Michael doesn't ask just yet, but seems to understand they hurt too, even when they are long healed over physically. His lips leave heartfelt love notes along each thin, straight white plot of tissue. The most prominent one, dark and deep, the scar he had felt that first day, receives the most attention. 

"You're beautiful, and kind, and smart, and strong… and I need you," he mutters into your skin, pecking up your arm and to the curve of your shoulder. 

Your body thrums with white hot electricity, your breathing growing labored from all that you're _feeling_. You close your eyes and concentrate on his mouth. It maps out a blazing path across the tops of your breasts, placing one large kiss over your heart before serpentining up to your collarbones. 

"We can fight the darkness together, right? You're not all that bad… you're the nicest girl I know." He continues up your throat and chin, sluggishly now, agonizing… 

You whimper. 

He stops before your mouth, calling your name. His breath puffs against you and your eyelids flutter open. 

You stare up at him, in awe of his beauty in spite of his tears. They add to his handsome image, bringing life to this masterpiece made real. 

"Will you help me? Fight with me and protect me, darling girl?" His pleas are much too sweet to handle. When he rests his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose kissing your own, you shatter. 

"Yes, yes…" you find yourself weeping, breathy and quiet, gasping for air. What is this feeling? This crushing, all-consuming weight? This inescapable chaotic force dragging you into a great, yawning maw? 

"Can I-- _May_ I," he corrects swiftly, "kiss you? Here?" He releases your hand to run his index finger over the swell of your lips, eagerness thumping in his pulse and yours. 

"Yes," you permit and he smiles, the lines around his mouth crisp and gorgeous. 

"I love you," Michael sighs before closing the distance between you and pressing a final, lasting kiss to your lips. 

* * *

**1993**

"I love you," Tate confesses, breathless, in the darkness of his bedroom. His naked body is warm against yours. Both of you are still damp from the quick shower you had taken, a difficult secret task in a house with many eyes and ears. 

You're cuddled together on his bed with your head on his bare chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. The ache between your legs throbs in time with your heartbeat, but you find the dull pain an exquisite pleasure, more so than the sharp sting of a razor over your wrist. You didn't need that kind of pain, not anymore with Tate Langdon in your life.

Everyone in the house is asleep. You had snuck in through his window like a thief in the night-- ladder, black clothing and all-- to meet with your boyfriend of six months on your anniversary. Honestly, counting anniversaries month by month is a lame preppy thing to do, but Tate is special.

You are sixteen and hopelessly in love with this boy. He was different from any of your past relations, deliciously and positively abnormal. Like you.

"I love you too," you reply, lightly drawing circles over his skin with the edge of your nail. You draw a large girlish heart over his real one. It had taken a while for you to admit it. Months of skirting around the subject, replacing 'love' with small physical actions until you were completely ready to drop the L-bomb. You've been with too many boys and girls who were quick to profess their feelings, only for them to retract it all when the next great conquest came along to sweep them off their feet. Such is the nature of young love. You didn't 'put out' like many around you liked to think. But Tate… 

He's The One. He understands everything about you, even your strangeness.

"Did it hurt?" he asks softly, toying with a lock of your hair still saturated with moisture.

"A little, but it felt good once I got used to it. Being wet definitely helped." You giggle and kiss his sternum, and he ruffles your hair in return. 

"That's good.. I liked it too. You were nice and tight. And I feel like.. you were made just for me. I'm just sorry it took us so long to find each other." He smooths the mess he had made of your hair and hums contentedly. Relief rushes through you. You weren't sure if you were worthy being his first partner in intercourse, even when he had reassured you so many times you were. "So, I really am your first guy," Tate muses nonchalantly. "I think I'm going to have to burn that towel, though. You got blood all over it." He chuckles and you swat him. 

"You ass! When have I ever lied to you?" you hiss, feeling your face heat up. "And you don't have to burn it. Use baking soda, salt and cold water. Takes the blood right out as long as it hasn't set in."

Tate swallows comically and you can hear his saliva go down his esophagus.

"Should I be afraid you know all that?"

You huff.

"I've been bleeding every month since I was 13, dipshit. I can't afford to burn all my underwear and jeans."

"Eh, sounds like too much work. You don't know what you're missing, baby, playing with fire is fun. But I don't wanna get up just yet. Ma won't miss that one; it's my cum rag."

"...How romantic," you deadpan, rolling your eyes as Tate vibrates with quiet laughter. 

"You still love me though," he prods, poking at your cheek. You fight the smile sneaking onto your face.

"Maybe. I'm starting to reconsider after you deflowered me on your fucking cum towel, sicko." You jab him between the ribs with your thumb and he recoils with a small yelp. The smile wins and plays upon your lips.

"Hey, I made sure it was clean! I washed it myself. It was either that, or a wet park bench out in the open. Not my fault your parents took your door off its hinges. You should have stayed quiet when I was going down on you."

The memory of his head between your thighs and his devious tongue furiously spelling the alphabet against your pussy made your core spasm. He was worth getting grounded and losing your privacy privileges over.

"Ugh, shut up and kiss me, fool," you groan, seeking out his lips. You peck his chin before finding his mouth and kissing him hard, teasing him with your tongue. He moans into the kiss and snakes his hand down to paw at the supple flesh of your ass.

Tate is the first to break away for air.

"Be careful, darling girl. Do that for much longer and I'll be ready for round two," he growls, grasping your hand and placing it on his hardening cock.

"Yeah? Maybe I'll be ready too if you eat me out again," you say, beginning to stroke his thick length. 

"Ooh, sounds tempting… you do taste pretty damn good. Mm, I'll spell my name this time since you're mine now." You can hear the grin in his voice as he detaches from you and slithers underneath the sheets.

As he draws the first two letters of his name, you grip the pillow and gasp.

_I love him. I am his and I'll love him forever..._

The thought resounds through your mind like church bells.

* * *

**Present**

'I love you.'

_Young men's love then lies, Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes._

You can't help but think of the friar's words from Romeo and Juliet. In some sense, you feel as if you're living (unliving?) in a modern day version of the play.

However, after being burned by Tate when Violet appeared, you are wary of the declaration. Even now, you still haven't forgotten that pain or those old feelings for him. You can never forget. Even the inklings of love you've shared with all the others in your past.

You take it in, but do not readily accept. Not yet. Michael is still young and such words carry too much weight and meaning to be thrown around so lightly. You've known him for less than a month. But you can see where he's coming from.

You were that young once…

But not anymore.

 _Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast_ , you mentally quote, steeling yourself to handle the situation with a necessary delicacy.

Michael's head is nestled against your chest as you lie back on the bed, your arms around him in a protective circle.

Your mouth is still shimmering with the sensation of his. While inexperienced and a little clumsy with his movements, you still enjoyed it. You hadn't been kissed in so long; you've forgotten the feeling.

"I won't be mad if you don't say it back," Michael mutters, tracing patterns into the satin over your belly. "I couldn't help it. I still can't. You've become… everything to me."

You pet his hair, carding your fingers through the sunny fluff and gently massaging his scalp.

"I'm sorry, Michael. I can't say those words just yet, but just know that I am quite fond of you still. It's just… it's going to take time. Time for you to grow and meditate upon those feelings, and time for me to figure out my own. I won't lie to you, sweetheart. I've been 'in love' so many times that even I don't know what the real thing is anymore. And I think that we need to get to know each other a little better before we can truly decide."

He looks up at you through his lashes and you squirm inside.

"It's okay. That's why I wanted to spend time with you. We never get to be alone and now that we are… Do you think we can just.. talk? Dr. Harmon.. He said some things that bugged me. I just want to know the truth from your own mouth."

You suck in a breath.

"Okaaay… what would you like to know?"

Immediately, anxiety strikes your heart. Would he ask about your sins? Your scars?

"Let's just start with where you came from. And.. how you ended up here?"

You shut your eyes for a quick second. That is a long story to tell.

"I can't tell you absolutely everything today. But, eventually I will. How about I start at the beginning? I'll start with where I came from and perhaps we can tackle each event after one day at a time?"

"That sounds great. And… is it okay if we stay like this? You feel so comfy."

Michael smiles and you can't help but wear one too. He's just too damn cute for his own good.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, darling," you reply and begin the first part of your tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart hurt a little when I wrote this. But, this and the last chapter are my favorites so far. I'm sorry if you weren't prepared for the Tate flashback or if you don't like him. I had to write him in, I'll always be a fan. But I don't condone anything my faves have done. Never.
> 
> Also, rereading Romeo and Juliet now that I can understand it more... Ugh I just love Shakespeare's way of wording things. Too real...
> 
> Anyway, hope that you're continuing to enjoy this. I know I have fun writing it and seeing the positive feedback. Thank you. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, questions, compliments, critique and convo always welcome!
> 
> Oh I'm on Tumblr too! It's lame and I'm shy as fuck, but here's the link: https://lilith-writes.tumblr.com


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